


That Nothing I Hold

by WithTheKeyIsKing



Series: Somewhere Between Memories and Scars [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Q, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Criminal Masterminds, Ex-Criminal Q, Ex-Reluctant Sadist Q, Extremely Dubious Consent, Flashbacks, Jealous James Bond, Jim is a Little Shit, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Possessive Jim, Protective James Bond, Psychopaths In Love, Q Backstory, Q is not a Damsel in Distress, Reluctant Sadist, Sadistic Jim Moriarty, Sorta kinda, Torture, Undercover Missions, and love doesn't quite fit these crazy geniuses, consent's here too I promise!, psychopath is a strong word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 20:51:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14363415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithTheKeyIsKing/pseuds/WithTheKeyIsKing
Summary: When M brought Q into MI6, it wasn't from some tech company, but from the top of one of the largest criminal organizations to ever exist.Q has a long and dark past, and now the new M intends to use it to bring down James Moriarty, a powerful and sinister man with a special soft spot for the Quartermaster.





	That Nothing I Hold

**Author's Note:**

> I. Fucking. Love. This. Pairing. Give me AAALLLLLLLLL the Q/Jim fics!! Can't believe it took me this long to put one out myself. Hope you enjoy, and hope you stick around for more!  
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
> Timeline wise: This takes place four years after Skyfall (& 4 years after Reichenbach, since they came out the same year) and like two and a half years after Spectre

Q knocked on the door to M's office, entering as the man called for him to do so. Mallory was seated behind his desk with his hands pressed tightly together on top of it, a grave expression covering his face. Against the wall leaned James Bond, arms folded across his chest and lips pursed in unhappiness. Q frowned.

"You asked to see me, sir?" he asked.

"Yes, Q, good," M replied tersely, as was his way. Gareth Mallory had been M for about four years now, since Olivia Mansfield died, but it had taken barely a few weeks to pin down exactly how the man operated, so his sharpness was never personal, unless he was _really_ angry, and then it was still usually because of a professional cause. "I wanted to request something of you."

From the corner, Bond snorted. "That's an awfully small way of putting it," he muttered.

"Double-Oh-Seven, do I have to threaten to remove you from this operation again?" M replied sharply. Bond remained silent, but his glare remained firmly in place. Q felt his chest tighten uneasily for a moment.

"Recently," M continued, drawing his gaze away from Bond and back to Q, "many illegal dealings have come to our attention, or more specifically their relatedness. Going by the nature and organization of the crimes, It seems the work of a familiar criminal organization."

"The remains of Spectre?" Q inquired. "I thought we'd managed to track down the last threads of them over nine months ago. We were very thorough." M shook his head seriously, revealing that no, it wasn't Spectre, but he very aware of _who_ it was and didn't like it. Bond's look of distaste proved that he knew, too.

Q had never been a fan of being the least knowledgeable person in the room; ever since he was a child it had made him feel off-balance and he'd always tried to fix the situation as soon as he possibly could. In M's office in that moment, Q was lacking a large, pivotal piece of information that everyone else had, and he wanted M to just get to the point and fill him in.

"It appears that the Moriarty organization is rearing its ugly head again. They went quite for a few years after the incident with Sherlock Holmes, allowing us all to believe that it was dismantled, but it appears that all it was, was dormant. Now, however, our analysts and sources seem to agree that it is back up and running at full force."

Q straightened, his face going blank. He forced his body to relax out of an old instinct, and deliberately kept his breathing slow to remain in control.

"Oh?" he asked calmly. His mind raced; he'd followed the case, back when it was happening. James Moriarty, on trial for attempting _(he wasn't attempting you fucking morons, he was showing off)_ to steal the crown jewels. He'd read every article, watched every broadcast, hacked the defense's online notes as well as the lawyer's. He'd just barely stopped himself from actually going to the trial. _That_ would have been a _horrible_ idea.

"Yes," M replied heavily. His tone told Q all he needed to know; the man had read his file. Not his regular file, the one stored on the server with everyone else's (which he knew Bond had hacked his way into once), but the thick, hard-copy one stored in a hidden safe in the old M's office. Q figured it was in New-M's office now, somewhere just a few feet from him, with all the sordid, _vile_ details of his past.

The old M had promised that no one would ever see it, that she would keep his past in his past and those in his future would never need know. After she'd died, Q had been worried, jumpy, waiting for someone who went through her things to arrest him for all that he'd done. But no one did, and he'd assumed that they simply hadn't found wherever she'd hidden it, or that maybe she'd burned it long ago.

He should've known that the new M had gotten his hands on it and just kept it in his back pocket for a rainy day. M wanted something that only Q could give, which included his past deeds.

"And what would you like from me, exactly?" Q asked, keeping his tone even and calm, his posture the picture of relaxation. M's eyes were knowing, and Q felt the irrational urge to punch him in the face to get rid of that look. _(Reign it in, you idiot; you are not_ his _anymore, and you needn't bring those old urges he created to the surface at just the mention of his name)._

"Something completely stu-" Bond began under his breath, only to stop when M shot him an awful look, the look promising to remove him from the room if he continued. Bond gave him a bitter smirk in return. "So sorry, _M;_ I'll be silent."

M looked just about as convinced of the truthfulness of that statement as Q felt.

"I want you to infiltrate the Moriarty organization," M told Q bluntly. Q's breath caught. "An inside man is the perfect way to dismantle it, and you are the absolute best choice for the job."

The room was silent. Q could feel Bond's irritation to his left, and could see M's single-minded focus as he looked at the quartermaster, but at the moment, Q was in his own head. M wanted him to offer himself back up to the organization that had nearly been the death of himquite literally. He was lucky that he'd survived the blunt force trauma, lucky that someone had come across him before he died of the injury...

M wanted him to offer himself willingly to the place that had twisted his brain so thoroughly that it took Q _years_ to be fully free of the influence. Of _his_ influence. M wanted him to once again stand at the top of the most dangerous criminal organization to ever exist and then ignore the power and triggers and _him_ to actually dismantle it. M wanted him to go back to him.

Because infiltration wasn't all M was asking, was it? He knew _exactly_ what this would entail, what it would demand. He'd read Q's file, and his file was very detailed about what had gone on. And M wanted him to go back anyway.

And down that pathwas M an _idiot?_ This was a lot of faith he was placing in how far Q had come. What if he hadn't come far enough? In all the years since he'd left, he'd never had an actual opportunity to test if he was completely free of all that had happened. What if, when he was back where he'd come from, he reverted back? What if his new loyalty to MI6 wasn't enough to turn him away from his old loyalty? What if he wasn't strong enough?

But goddamn if M wasn't right about him being the best shot at infiltration.

"Are you sure about this? Q asked calmly. "Really, _truly_ sure?"

M stared at him, his gaze boring into the younger man, unnerving in their intensity. Then, the leader nodded. "I've weighed all the factors, and I still think this is the best path." He paused, and then added, "I think you don't give yourself enough credit, Q."

Q just barely controlled a strangled laugh. _I think you might give me too much._

"Might I voice my opinion now?" Bond grit out.

M looked like he was going to once again going to threaten the Double-Oh's removal, but then the leader sighed and waved a hand through the air. "If you must," he grouched.

The Quartermaster looked at Bond, who met his steady gaze with one of his own. "I don't think you are the best option for this operation. Clearly the two of you know about some _in_ you might have, but a connection does not mean you have the skills required for this lengthy, intense type of op. You need to be able to be cold and ruthless and willing to play your role no matter what. You need to be able to be a _spy,_  and while you are an excellent Quartermaster, a master assassin and actor you are not. I do not doubt your incredible competence in your field, but this is not your field, and I think it's an unbelievably stupid idea to put you in this position. It's going to get you killed."

Q breathed slowly. He weighed his options, and made a decision. One little memory would be enough to make Bond believe. "The Marielli assassinations."

Bond blinked, clearly mystified by the sudden topic change. "...Pardon?"

"The Marielli assassinations," Q repeated. "Do you remember the incident?"

Still looking confused, Bond replied, "Yes, of course. Someone managed to get in close to the don of the family, tortured him until he revealed the location of where he stored his money, then killed him, his wife, the two guards outside his bedroom, and his brother. The assassin escaped without a trace. Even though other members of the family had met the man as he won the don's favor, none of them seemed able to identify anything about him after the fact. The case was closed with not a single lead or piece of evidence. What does this-"

"The real trick," Q interrupted, "as I'm sure you're aware, is simultaneously being forgettable and unforgettable, depending on the people you're talking to. Getting Vincent's attention was easy because no matter how hush-hush it was, he enjoyed the company of young boys, especially ones with an air of innocence and who could keep a secret.

"Getting his men to ignore me was hard at first, as they watched anyone who got close to Vincent, but once I played the role of all the others that had come before me they really couldn't have cared less. His wife fawned over me, finding a resemblance between me and her dead son, which wasn't a problem because she wouldn't be alive to identify me afterwards.

"Once I was in Vincent's bed it was unbelievably easy to kill his guards, his wife, and tie him up so that the work could begin. I won't go into the details of _how_ I took him apart, but if you like I could; I remember all of it. And then, of course, Vincent broke down and told me where he kept his millions of cold hard cash, and then I slit his throat and used the tree right outside his window to get down to the first floor. Frank, the brother, was smoking outside just a few feet away, so I killed him, too. Then I vanished."

To his credit, Bond had an amazing poker face, but Q could see the war of emotions just below the surface.

"So," Q continued with a small shrug, "you're wrong about me not having the skillset for this type of operation. I am _very_ well-fit for it."

The Double-Oh drew in a slow breath, and let it out in the same controlled fashion. "That incident was fifteen years ago," Bond said eventually.

Q rose an eyebrow. "Yes, it was."

"Whichwhen doing the mathmeans you were  _nineteen_ at the time."

Q didn't change his expression. "Yes, I was." He turned his attention back to M, who was watching him carefully. "Give Bond the bare minimum to prove that I'm the perfect person for this op, and then send me all of the information on the cover of what I've been doing these past nine years. Now, if you'll excuse me." Then Q turned and left, closing the door behind him just as Bond began to ask M  _what the hell is going o-_

Q kept his head held high and kept walking, refusing to breakdown for even a moment.

* * *

Alexander wasn't a one night stand kind of person. He'd just graduated college, which was usually the time to be free and experiment, but seeing as he'd _entered_ Cambridge at only fifteen years old and graduated at seventeen, he wasn't exactly out and about getting experience. That wasn't to say he was _un_ experienced by this point, per say, but still not the type to have sex with random strangers he met in a pub.

But so far his week had been quite difficult and the man who approached him was attractive and very clever, so just this once the coder figured that he could let himself blow off a little steam in a pleasurable way.

It wasn't like the other man was a pedophile; in fact he looked no older than twenty, and he grinned and laughed when Alexander informed him about the knife he had in his boot in case any boundaries were broken. In fact, he showed Alexander a very similar looking one tucked under his own pant leg, to which the coder let out a startled laugh.

Alexander would admit he was a little tipsy, and that was an absolutely _horrible_ time to be making the decision to go back to a stranger's apartment, but honestly, after a week of his carefully laid-out plans going to shit, Alexander was perfectly alright with letting things be for one night.

The manwho introduced himself as Jim and held intelligent conversation like it was the easiest thing in the worldkissed him passionately in the cab, and was clearly unafraid to pull him close and grope him through his trousers with some _excellent_ fingers. The cab driver shot them dirty looks in his rearview mirror, but Alexander was far too occupied to pay it any mind as he normally would.

The cab stopped outside a relatively nice apartment building, and Jim didn't let go of him the entire time they went in, rode up the elevator, and entered his apartment. Jim kissed Alexander and held him and grabbed him like he wanted nothing more than to be with him, like nothing else in the world was important, and Alexander couldn't help but grin as Jim stripped him, kissing down his body as he did.

Jim broke away momentarily, grabbing a bottle of scotch off a small metal tray, taking two swings from it before offering it to Alexander, resuming his touching and he urged Alexander to drink some. The alcohol burned as it went down but it was delicious and of excellent quality, so the coder didn't complain, simply capturing Jim's lips once more.

As they began making their way to the bedroom, Alexander started to feel dizzy, his head foggy. He stumbled but Jim kept him upright, guiding him to the bed and lying him down.

Alexander blinked up at the ceiling, stars dancing across his vision. His limbs felt heavy and they barely moved when he asked them to. Distantly, Alexander realized that he must've been drugged, but the thought faded away and he chased the stars across the sky. He barely noticed his arms moving _someone_ moving thembut the rope that kept his wrists securely tied to the headboard was an unmistakable feeling, as was his legs being spread and his ankles secured in the same manor to the end of the bed. Alexander frowned.

Someone ran a hand across his brow, as if trying to sooth the frown away. "Don't worry, lovely," a familiar voice crooned. "I'm just going to have a bit of fun, and then I'll send you on your way. You probably won't even remember most of what happens."

Alexander blinked a few times and saw a face swim into view above him. The dark eyes and dark hair and pale skin looked like someone he knew, and he felt very proud when he identified, "Jim," as if it were a great accomplishment. The Irishman just smiled down at him.

"Now this might hurt a smidge," Jim said, and then laughed, a manic sound. "Well, it might hurt a _lot._ But people all have their different tastes, honey. This is mine. To each his own, yes?" Jim shrugged in an exaggerated fashion, but Alexander just blinked, unable to form a response. His tongue felt very thick in his mouth.

Jim disappeared from his immediate view, and then Alexander cried out in pain as some sort of thick leather strap whipped fire across his stomach. He convulsed, his stomach muscles cramping as thebelt?hit him again and again. His legs strained against the ropes holding his ankles in place in the urge to curl up and protect the abused area. His entire body tingled, the feeling bleeding out from the whipped spots.

The strikes paused and Alexander let out a shaky breath, silent tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. But then the whipping began again, only this time it was with a different type, thinner and courser, the pain from this one lasting longer. The strikes moved lower, hitting his thighs, and Alexander heard Jim laugh as he keened. Then the whip moved up slightly hitting his penis and balls and _Alexander-_

The coder's vision went white, pain radiating throughout him. His body was vibrating, tingling, and it wasn't an altogether unpleasant sensation, even while the excruciating pain made Alexander cry in earnest.

"My, my," Alexander heard Jim said in a tone of amused wonder when his senses came back to him. "Seems there's more to you than meets the eye, hmm? To each his own, indeed."

Alexander really didn't know what the other man was talking about, but he jolted when he felt a hand wrap around his penis, and he realized he was _hard._ The hand moved slowly, teasing him, and then the whip came down hard again against his stomach. Alexander gasped for air, sobbing from the pain and confused by the pleasure.

"I don'tI don't-" he gasped out, but his brain wouldn't put any more words together.

Jim seemed to understand, anyway. "You _do,_ my dear, but I understand, it's a new thing to you. I must admit, I've never done this with someone who enjoyed it like I do." He batted his eyelids in mock bashfulness.

"IWhyit wasother wayI-" Alexander tried again, once more failing to form a finished thought.

Jim rose his eyebrows, leaning over Alexander to look him directly in the eyes. "The other way, hmm? You ever used some violence against someone else? Did it get you all hot and bothered, sweet Alexander?"

Alexander shook his head, and that small motion made him dizzy, the room spinning momentarily. "NoitI-" Alexander didn't know why he was suddenly trying to explain himself and his truths to the man who had drugged him and tied him down to rape him, but as his father had once told him before beating the crap out of him, he was, apparently,  _a messed up piece of shit._

Jim sighed heavily. "Well, I'm curious now. But you're all drugged up; there's no way to get answers from you like this." He said it like Alexander had committed a great crime, as if  _Jim_ wasn't the one who had drugged him in the first place.

"Oh well," Jim finally said, his voice lyrical. "Might as well make the most of it until you can explain your screwed up little brain. I'll admit that I'm _dying_ to pick it apart." He climbed onto the bed then, straddling Alexander's hips. There was the sound of something being squirted out of a tube, and then two slick fingers probed at his entrance, pushing in.

Oddly enough, Jim was very thorough in stretching him, not at all fitting with the sadism from before. As if hearing his unsaid question, Jim leaned forward with a smirk, meeting Alexander's gaze. "It would hurt me, too, if you weren't wide enough. Don't think I'm going soft on you now, sweetheart."

True to his words, when Jim lined up, he slammed into Alexander with brutal force, and when he began moving his pace matched that brutality. Alexander's head swam, his vision blurring and sound coming in and out. He felt like he was on fire and was being torn apart, his body and soul both. The intensity of emotions grew when Jim began hitting his prostate over and over again, simultaneously squeezing his balls in a painfully tight grip. Jim was grinning above him.

Alexander wasn't sure when he passed out, but Jim was still moving when he did, and was completely absent when he awoke.

His arms were aching and his shoulders felt completely numb, stuck in the same tied position they'd been in for who-knows how long. His ankles had been released, at least. He felt a sticky substance on his stomach and looked down, seeing a puddle of dried cum in the hollow of his stomach. His face felt like there was something on it, as well, crusted and sticky, and he felt nausea at the thought that it was cum, as well.

His head was pounding, an extremely awful headache, worse than any hangover he'd had in the past. Given, he hadn't been hungover many times before. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense of what had happened.

There was making out with someone in a cab, and then striping with them in an apartment, and then his head got fuzzy and he was tied down and...

Alexander blinked, his memories coming back like a flood, and suddenly his mind felt as numb as his shoulders. The pain, and the pleasure, and the desire to confess the truth, and the fear, and the...the momentary  _peace?_

"Hello, lovely," a voice called out happily. Alexander turned his head to the right and saw Jim standing in the bedroom doorway with an amused expression, his hands cradling a cup of what smelled like coffee. Alexander's stomach churned. "Good to see you awake. How's the headache? Absolutely horrible, I'd imagine."

"My" Alexander coughed, his throat dry and sore. "My shoulders-" he coughed again.

Jim hummed, stepping further into the room until he was at Alexander's bedside. "Yes, I do suppose they're killing you. You just looked so pretty tied up, my cum on your face, that I simply couldn't resist leaving you like that."

Alexander just blinked. Jim sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Fine," the rapist grumbled. He set down him mug and reached forward, undoing the rope's knots with deft fingers. As soon as he was free, painful pins and needles shot through Alexander's arms, shoulders, and neck. He grimaced at the sudden burst of pain. Jim sat on the edge of the bed, and the two of them stared at each other.

"...You raped me," Alexander said eventually, breaking the silence.

Jim nodded thoughtfully. "Yup." He slurped some coffee. "Though to be fair, you _did_ come here with the intention of being fucked; I just took it a bit further." Alexander stared at him incredulously. Jim just smiled.

"Why am I here?" Alexander asked. He rolled his shoulders, wincing as the pain intensified for a moment. "Why am I _still_ here?"

"Because I'm _curious,"_ Jim whined. "Shame on you; why couldn't you just scream and cry like the rest? Instead you had to go and be _interesting."_ He spat it like it was the biggest annoyance in human history, but his eyes were glistening with excitement. Giddy, even.

Alexander felt weirdly calm. Here he was, sitting and talking with his rapist right after having woken up from being drugged. He wasn't afraid or panicked, simply in a bit of pain. He was just... _calm._ Intensely, perfectly _calm._

He'd gotten into modes like this many times before. When something bad was happening, he was perfectly in control, his thoughts quick and sharp and logical, matching his tongue. It was like his brain just completely shut down the part of his mind that felt emotion, leaving him purely clear-headed. The first time Alexander could remember this happening was his earliest memory of his father beating him.

A therapist would probably call it a defense mechanism. Then again, defense mechanisms such as this tended to dissolve after the bad situation was over, and Alexander never really got around to feeling the emotional pain anyone else normally would have.

As if following his train of thought, Jim tilted his head and said, "You know, you seem awfully... _not_ terrified and freaked out as you should be."

"Well, it's like you said," Alexander replied evenly. His breathing was even, his pulse was even, his mind was even. He was completely free of turmoil. "My brain tends to be a little screwed up."

"Yes!" Jim exclaimed, nodding excitedly. "Yes, exactly! Now tell me what you meant last night." Alexander frowned, trying to find the memory of what Jim was referencing, and Jim rolled his eyes in annoyance. "This is the first time that I have ever hated the way this drug affects memory, you know." He sighed, and then said, "I was hitting you and you got hard. Then when I asked you about it, you started to say something about it usually being  _the other way,_ but disagreed when I asked if you normally liked  _causing_ pain. So I want to know  _what you meant."_

Alexander just blinked, staring.

Jim snarled and lunged closer, wrapping a hand around Alexander's neck and providing enough pressure to make breathing hard but not impossible. He leaned very close, their faces barely two inches apart, and Alexander swallowed at the intense look in the other man's eyes.

"Answer. The. Question," Jim demanded in a deceptively sweet voice.

Alexander shuddered, gasping for a large enough breath of air, and felt his head go a little fuzzy. Jim was grasping his neck in such a way that he was also putting pressure on his carotid artery, which was restricting some blood-flow to his brain and making him dizzy.

"Ok," the coder finally whispered. Jim smiled and eased his grip, but didn't pull away, leaving his hand lightly resting on his neck as a permanent threat. Alexander took a moment pull in some deep breaths and adjust to the sudden rush in his head, then spoke.

"By  _the other way,_ " he murmured, "I meant that in the past, whenever someone hurt me, I got very angry. Enough that I didn't very much care for their well-being, for a moment. It was always temporary, but it was there. And sometimes…they got hurt."

Jim remained silent, his eyes flicking over Alexander's face and taking in every detail with a hungry gleam to them. Then, suddenly, he leaned back, looking unimaginably pleased. His dark eyes promised horrible things, and Alexander couldn't contain a shudder.

"Oh, my dear," Jim said breathlessly, "We are going to have so much fun together."

* * *

The story M sent him was simple and pretty accurate to what Q was sure his life would've ended up being if M (the last M, the real M) hadn't found him and brought him into MI6.

It started with the truth: after the attempted murder, Q was found where he'd been abandoned on the side of the road by a couple taking the scenic route to their destination. He was taken to the hospital where doctors fixed him up, and he (of course) gave an alias when they asked for his name. After being discharged, Q went off and laid low for a few months, doing some freelance coding to pay the bills.

Then, the story diverged from the truth.

M did not track him down, break into his apartment, and recruit him. Instead, Q continued coding. The more time that passed, the safer Q felt that he wasn't going to be discovered, and he moved back into bigger hacking jobs, making sure that he remained entirely anonymous, and didn't stay in one place for more than two months. He was determined to not be found, lest they finished the job this time.

Without M having found him, without the mandatory therapy, without a job doing what he loved but for the good guys, Q did not regain his morals. He did not care that the information he gathered meant people killed when he gave it to the ones who'd paid him to get it, he did not care when he put a bullet in someone who chased him because they were unsatisfied with what he'd given them, he did not care when he was hired as an assassin every once in a while.

He wasn't any better than he was when he was part of the Moriarty organization. He simply wasn't their weapon anymore. Or, more accurately, wasn't  _his_ weapon anymore.

Q, with his photographic memory, memorized everything in the file M sent him, making sure he knew each and every detail, down to the smallest. He'd always been good at getting a story straight.

The plan was that he was going to go play his role for a few weeks, and then subtly attract the attention of the master criminals, as if it hadn't been his intention. And from there, well...it was all up in the air about where the plan was going to go from there. There was no definitive way to know the best path to take the organization down until Q was actually part of it again.

The entire plan was also dependent upon him being wanted back in his previous role, which Q was still doubtful of, even if M seemed very confident that it would be an immediate welcome as soon as they found him.

The entire plan was also dependent upon him being able to not break into a million pieces again, him being able to look the big boss in the eyes and not crumble, him being able to resist the powerful life he'd lived before, him being able to resist the powerful emotions he'd felt before. None of those things seemed 100% to Q. All of them seemed 100% to M.

The day before Q was set to head out for the mission, Bond stopped by his office. Q didn't look up from his computer, continuing to work on the program he was determined to finish before the end of the day so that R and the rest of his minions could use it while he was gone.

Bond entered without permission and walked up to his desk, standing next to Q's seated form, facing him even as Q faced forward.

"Can I help you, Double-Oh-Seven?" Q inquired, still not looking at the agent.

"I don't want you to go on this operation," Bond told him. In the room that was silent other than the clack of Q's computer keys, the declaration felt startlingly loud, even though Bond had barely spoken above a murmur.

"Yes, I'm very aware," Q responded wryly; Bond had made his position  _very_ clear in M's office a week ago, and Eve had told him that Bond had stopped by M's office twice since then, still trying to convince the leader to call this mission off. "Anything else?"

The room was silent again, the clicking of his keyboard sounding out of place in a room that suddenly felt far too tense with something Q couldn't quite name.

"Q," Bond said softly. The quartermaster's fingers stilled. He still didn't look up. "I don't want you to go on this operation." Q shut his eyes.

They'd been dancing around this for what felt like a very long time. The flirting over comms, the little joke-gifts Bond brought back from his missions, the way Q was just a  _smidge_ more lenient about equipment with him (still not, mind you, lenient at all). But nothing had ever come of it, nothing had ever been done. Q had been perfectly content with the way they'd circled each other without either of them pushing for more.

Bond was pushing.

"I know," Q murmured quietly. He stood up and stayed where he was. If he turned to face Bond, they'd be chest to chest. Q didn't dare turn; Bond was close enough as it was. Q could feel his warm breath on the side of his neck. "But I'm still going to go."

"It's not safe, Q. You're going to get hurt," Bond responded. Q blinked, feeling shaken as he realized that Bond was meaning more than just going undercover. Bond _knew_ more than just going undercover.

Q tensed. "What, exactly, did M tell you?" the hacker asked. Q had told M to inform Bond of the _bare minimum,_ and only what was pertinent to his skill level so that Bond would be fully aware of Q's ability to do this job. He absolutely did _not_ want Bond aware of _anything else._ And M knew that. So why the fuck did he-

When Bond didn't respond, Q took a step away and turned to face him, all of the softness from just a minute ago gone. Bond's eyes were gentle in a way that Bond's never were unless he was looking at Q. Usually, it made Q feel warm inside, feel special, but now it only infuriated him, because Bondwhile honest in his affectionswas using it to try to manipulate Q into staying.

"What did M tell you?" Q repeated coldly.

Bond sighed. "Q-" he tried softly, reaching towards the quartermaster.

On instinct, Q grabbed the hand and twisted it away, pushing so that Bond was forced to move away lest his shoulder pop from the strain. Bond let him, but his eyes were filled with confused surprise at the sudden burst of violence.

Q closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. _Fuck, I am so screwed._ "Tell me."

When Bond began to speak, Q opened his eyes; the hacker was glad to see Bond's poker face firmly in place. It made this entire thing easier, since Q had his going in full force.

"He listed out the things you're skilled in, including the various forms of combat, the fluency in seven languages, three assassinations you accomplished or planned, and your...intimate knowledge of the ways to torture someone. And, of course, I already know about your computer skills." Bond's tone was the same one he used in after-mission debriefs.

"And?" Q prompted, narrowing his eyes.

The Double-Oh pursed his lips and looked away. His jaw muscle jumped in anger. "M shared that you have a history with the Moriarty organization that goes past a small _in."_

"Bond," Q warned dangerously.

When the MI6 agent looked back to him, his eyes were filled with fire, his anger clear. Behind the anger, Q could see worry and hurt. The quartermaster ignored it. "What do you want me to say, Q?" Bond demanded. "Do you really want me to tell you exactly what M shared? Because I think you should've shared this with me a long time ago!"

Outrage exploded in Q's chest, and he couldn't help but let out an incredulous laugh. "Did you _actually_ just say that to me? You have absolutely _zero right_ to my past! I don't have to tell you _anything_ about myself that I don't want to, and M had no right to share it either!"

"That doesn't change the fact that you should've told me!"

"Why?" Q shot back in a scathing tone, feeling the urge to hurt. "Why should I have? And _when_ was I supposed to tell you? When we met at the gallery? After M was dead? During one of our various _tiny_ conversations in the middle of Q branch? When should I have bared my twisted little backstory to you, huh, Bond? What makes you think I _had_ to? We aren't together! We are _nothing!_ I didn't and don't owe you a _damn thing_ about my life."

Bond flinched and clenched his jaw to cover the hurt, but Q could feel nothing but savagely pleased, pushing down any guilt he might feel. "No, you don't," Bond replied in a quiet but clipped voice. "But you-"

"I swear to _god_ Double-Oh-Seven if the next words out of your mouth have to do with _'should have'_ I will take that gun off of you and shoot you in the thigh."

The older man took a step back. Not out of fear, but out of simple surprise at the pure fury and _honesty_ in that statement. He'd never seen Q like this, and Q had worked very hard to heal himself enough that he would never act in such a way, that he would never feel that deep anger he used to feel all the time, the anger _he_ had always stoked the flames of.

_God, I am so fucking screwed._

Q sagged, feeling so very tired all of a second. "When, Bond?" he asked, barely above a whisper. "If I'd told you towards the beginning, then all I would've been to you was the ex-accomplice of one of the most dangerous men in the world. There would be no chance of you trusting me, and I didn't yet trust you. I had no reason to tell you the secret I had protected with my life since joining MI6. And then, when we became friends, I was so afraid to lose the first real connection I'd had in five years. The past was the past, and I didn't want it to be part of my future. Besides, by the time we met, he was believed to be dead. It was over. I thought...I thought I could leave where I came from behind me. I imagined that maybe one day, when it was just you and me, I would tell you. But..." he trailed off.

Bond moved forward, and even though Q protested, trying to push the agent away, he gathered Q in his arms and held him tightly. "I have full confidence in your ability to pull this off, Q. I'm just afraid of what's going to be left of you after you complete it."

The younger man shuddered, shaking as if he were freezing. "I am, too," he whispered in return. And Q didn't share Bond's confidence.

* * *

Q didn't let himself be unnerved by how easy it was to slip back into his role as a freelance hacker; after all, it was the same work he'd been doing for the past nine years, just for clients instead of MI6.

He integrated himself back into the community slowly, trying to make it seem like he'd never dropped off the radar. Going by the way his clients didn't hesitate to hire him again, it worked, none of them the wiser.

Just like before, Q felt a serious amount of satisfaction whenever a job went perfectly well, his talents not rusty in the slightest. He felt disquieted whenever the information he delivered led to the ending of someone's life, but when weighed against the millions of lives he would save by taking down the Moriarty organization, he chose to let it slide. He _had_ to let it slide.

The apartment MI6 had set up for him was pretty goodit was sparse, but homey enough to match exactly how Q would've organized his flat before MI6; if anyone entered your apartment while away, whether it was the authorities or simply the landlord checking something out, it was good to make it look enough like a regular person lived there, and not like it was one of a million aliases. When homes lacked personal touches, it left the people who entered it with a weird feeling, even if they couldn't place it.

In a dorky, old-fashioned way, Q's flat had a hidden room behind a bookcase that was accessed by pulling a certain book. (Q also had a keypad with a ten-digit code he needed to enter after moving the book, because he was _Q_ and it needed to be high-tech and secure than just a simple movement of an object).

Q put the hidden room together himself, just using MI6 to get the files or data he needed. The room had four computers and three cabinets in which he kept hard-copy files of things he (in the role he was playing) felt the need to have access to in a fashion other than just online. Half-made gadgets were scattered around the room, as were various papers and tablets and other small electronics he'd put together. Q had never kept his work space clean, preferring the organized chaoshe always did much better with it.

It was one of the many reasons the two of them had worked so well together; the other man was controlled chaos in its purest form.

After three weeks, Q knew it was time to attract the Moriarty organization's attention. So, with a pounding heart, Q took on a man as a client who wanted his services in order to complete a job for the Moriarty people. Under his cover, Q had avoided doing jobs for people connected even slightly to the Moriarty organization since they parted ways nine years ago, determined to never attract the unwanted attention.

Doing this job now was "completely accidental".

The job itself was a relatively simple one, if requiring more from him than just hacking; he was to hack into the security system of a politician, use the codes he got to break into his home, crack the electronic safe once he was inside, steal the manila envelope inside it (he didn't ask what was in the envelope, because he was discreet and good at his job), and then sneak back out like he was never there.

Q completed it easilyit was exactly the same as at least five jobs he'd done before when working for the Moriarty organization.

Then the waiting game began. Waiting for the man to deliver the envelope to his employer, waiting for the big boss to be impressed by the level of subtly and lack of a trace in the mission, waiting for the man to admit who had pulled it off, waiting for the boss to find the alias behind the alias behind the alias the man had known, and then the person behind all three of those codenames.

The waiting was just fucking _awful._

Nine days after the job, Q noticed he was being tailed. The person wasn't bad at it, was actually pretty good, but Q had been doing this for a _long_ time and he'd also overseen many agents following targetshe knew when he was being tracked.

His heart began to pound, because he knew exactly why he was being followedthey'd managed to track him down, finally. They'd identified him, finally, and they were watching. Q forced himself to remain calm. Even. Logical. He'd always been good at that.

When he passed a newspaper stand he stopped, picking one up as if to read it. In the reflective surface of the side of the stand, Q looked behind him, identifying his tail. The man was Caucasian, about 5'11", with brown hair and brown eyes. Overall, an incredibly average man; always the perfect person to act as a tail.

Q bought the newspaper and a bottle of water, then kept walking. About a block later, Q turned down an alley, and then counted. The tail turned the corner to follow him at the exact second Q knew he would, and he lashed out, catching the man by surprise.

He slammed his palm into the man's neck, injuring his esophagus and causing the man to grasp at his throat, gasping. Surprise had given Q an advantage, and Q wasn't helpless without one, so he was completely confident in his ability to take the man down.

Q followed the first hit up with a punch to the gut and then a knee to the grointhe man dropped like a sack of potatoes, and Q shoved him towards the wall. When the man was settled on the ground, croaking and grimacing, Q squatted down, balancing on the balls of his feet in front of him. The tail jerked forward, probably intending to attack, but froze when Q pressed a small knife against his clothed dick.

"Do I have your attention?" he purred. Without moving his eyes, Q noticed a tiny, wireless camera and microphone pinned to the man’s jacket collar; it matched the color perfectly, and probably would've been missed in any other circumstance. Q didn't blink, didn't give any indication that he'd seen it. He had a role to play, and if they were watching, it was all the better.

The man nodded shakily, settling back against the wall with a nervous expression. Q smirked. "Good, that's good. Now, there's no need for anyone to lose any limbs, so you answer my questions and you don't lose your ability to fuck, understood?" Once again the man nodded, glancing down at his crotch and then back up. "Good, now first, tell me your name."

"Bill," the man said without hesitation. Q rose an eyebrow, and the man continued. "Bill Jacobson."

Q nodded. "Nice to meet you, Bill." Bill did not look like he shared the sentiment. "So, onto the _big_ question: who sent you to follow me?" Bill remained silent. Q resisted rolling his eyes, and was sure the people watching wouldn't miss the aborted action. He pressed the knife a little more firmly against Bill's crotch; the jean material began to fray, and the man further flattened himself against the wall to try to escape it. Q didn't let up.

"I hear they can do penis transplants now," Q began conversationally. "Given, the men never get any feeling in the body part back, and they _definitely_ can't use it for shit, but, you know, it's good as a _prop,_ or whatever-"

"Stop, stop!" Bill yelled as Q pressed the knife a little harder, the panic in his voice that of a man who was desperate to not lose his manhood.

"Give me a name, Billy, or you're going to have to come up with some clever excuse to tell a surgeon about why you have no dick."

Q was ready, he was prepared, and he had control over his reactions. He had control, and he knew exactly how to act when he heard the name. They weren't his own reactions, they belonged to who he had to be, who he would be for as long as he had to.

"Moriarty!" Bill cried out.

Q jerked, rocking back on his heels, and drew in a sharp breath, his eyes widening slightly. Then he pushed himself forward in determination, eyes narrowed into slits as he pressed the knife even more firmly.

Bill cried out. "I told you the name! Let me go!"

"No, you're lying," Q replied harshly. "You are _lying,_ you _have_ to be. Tell me the truth!" he demanded. The follower shook his head violently, desperate for Q to let him go.

With a snarl, Q pushed away and got to his feet. His heart began to pound, feeling the need to meet his act, but he forced it into remaining steady, just like his breathing.

"Shit," he muttered. He grasped tightly at his hair and squeezed his eyes shut.  _"Shit."_ He opened his eyes and straightened up, taking a deep breath. "Ok, Bill. You're free to go." The relief on the other man's face was clear, but Q followed it up with, _"but,_ if you don't keep your mouth shut, I'm _very_ good at what I do, and I _will_ find you." He twirled the knife in his hand to emphasize his point, and Bill clearly got the message, gulping.

"Yea, you got it," the other man replied quickly. "I'm quiet, I'm good at quiet." Q looked at him with an extremely doubtful expression, going on how Bill had just blabbed, but he jerked his head towards the exit of the alley anyway, letting the man scramble away, practically running.

When he was out of view, Q let himself lean against the brick wall, closing his eyes and letting out a slow, calm breath. _Move One, done. Your turn._

Then, he rushed back out into public, hastily catching a cab to his apartment with the "intention" of gathering up a few things and getting the hell out of London. It's exactly what would be expected, and exactly what he would've done had this all been real.

It was about an eight minute ride from his flat, and halfway through the ride, Q received an alert on his phone; someone had broken into apartment. A very  _familiar_ someone, going by what the security camera showed him. Q's eyes shuttered closed, the image of the dark-eyed man winking at his hallway camera as he entered seared behind his eyelids.

When he arrived outside his building, Q paid the driver and then approached the front door with even, measured steps. He used his keycard to get in the front door, and then into the elevator as well. His flat was on the top floorthe eighthand as he ascended he pulled a handgun out of his messenger bag, screwing a silencer onto the barrel.

His heart was pounding in his chest and it was a struggle to keep his breathing even. His body felt like it was vibrating, humming, a mix of instincts. Most of him, the him that had existed for the past nine years, the him he'd worked very hard to become and lived and thrived as, was determined, because this was just a mission like countless before it, and he could do this kind of job in his sleep.

But the other part of him, the him with violent anger issues and a simultaneous sociopathic cold streak, the him that had tortured and killed and fucked as a mastermind pulled it all out of him, the him who had loved the man who brought death and destruction to the entire world, was thrumming with anticipation, yearning to see what he was about to, because this man was as familiar to him as air was.

And both sides of him were completely and utterly terrified.

The elevator doors slid open and Q stepped out. There were only three apartments on the top floor, and his was the one at the end of the hall, so he moved forward, keeping his steps light and even and not hurried or anxious in the slightest. When he was outside his door, he took a deep breath, giving himself a moment to close his eyes and breathe, and then put the key in the lock and opened the door.

Before he even saw what the scene inside was, Q had his gun raised and pointed at his couch, the center of the room and exactly where he knew he would be. His lungs felt tight in his chest, his heart constricting. Only by sheer force of will did he hold off a panic attack.

Jim Moriarty barely looked any different than he had nine years ago. He wore a tailored Westwood suitit had always been his favorite brand, the kind he wore when  _Big Important_ things were happeningin an almost-black blue color. He sat with his legs extended, feet on the coffee table in front of him, which sent a small flare of irritation through Q; he'd always hated people doing that, and Jim knew it.

And, of course, the trademark Jim Moriarty smirk was fixed to his face, filled with dark amusement as he took Q in.

"Hello, Alexander," the criminal purred, his smile widening slowly. "It's been a long time."

Q just blinked, his arm not wavering, the gun remaining firmly aimed at Jim's face. He hid how floored he was at being referred to by his birth-name; no one had looked at him and identified _Alexander_ in just about nine years. "How?" he asked.

Just like every single time before, Jim never needed a clarification to follow his line of thinking. They'd become one organism for so long; getting to the other's point wasn't ever hard. "A Mister Joshua Barnes hired you to get some documents just over a week ago, yes? Well, _I_ was the one who hired him to get them for me in the first place." Q closed his eyes, as if cursing his own ignorance. "I was impressed by the skill shown in how the job was done, seeing as I fully believed he'd just storm in and kill some people to get it, and he told me about the freelancer he hired.

 _"Legacy._ And under the codename Legacy I found _Phase._ And then, under Phase, I found the infamous  _Overwatch,_ the hacker attributed with so many aliases and jobs that it could make a man's head spin trying to get through all the material!" Jim's expression was pure pleasure. "How many sub-aliases do you have under the Overwatch branch? What's the longest codename-ception line you have going?"

Q clenched his jaw and didn't answer. Jim's smirk sharpened. Q's throat clogged and he said, "The longest line is about seven aliases in front of Overwatch. Altogether, I have fifty-nine user IDs."

Q wanted to vomit. In the past, when Jim had looked at him like that, like _This will be easier for both of us if you're honest,_ Q had had absolutely no way to say no. It was an automatic instinct. Following that now was good for the role, and Q told himself that he'd only done it because it was what he should. But he couldn't deny that he'd been pulled into answering just as easily as he would've back when they were together.

The criminal smiled. He looked almost _proud._ Q very carefully did not shudder. "Very good, Alec," he murmured. Q's heart sped up at the familiar nickname.

"Thanks, that means _so_ much," Q shot back sarcastically. Jim smiled knowingly. The hacker scowled. "Well, this reunion has been fun and all, but I think I've had my fillget out of my flat."

Jim's expression was the one he wore when he was thinking something like _Aw, it's so cute you thought that would work._ The criminal got to his feet, and on instinct, Q took a step back. Jim's smile turned into the physical representation of _tsk, tsk_ as he moved forward.

Q strengthened his grip on his gun. "Don't," he warned. Jim just kept smiling. In the entire time Q had known the other man, there was barely a single moment when Jim wasn't smiling. The criminal used it to convey a _wide_ variety of emotions, and it was only on very rare occasions that he lacked some form of turned-up lips. Usually when his temper hit a hot spot. Q was very good at identifying Jim's millions of different smiles.

Jim started walking forward, his expression making it clear that he in no way believed that Q would shoot him. Q hated thateven without the coverthe idea of doing so left him with a sour, uncomfortable feeling.

"Oh, Alec," Jim sighed fondly. He kept moving until he was close enough to Q that the muzzle of the silencer was pressed firmly against his suit jacket, right over his heart. "My dear, sweet Alec. I've missed you."

It took a lot of Q's concentration to keep his hand steady. It took all of his control to get himself to say, "Yea? Seems a hard thing to believe, given you tried to kill me."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Don't be dramatic."

_How dare_

Like a volcano suddenly erupting, Q's anger flooded through him, taking over as it had many times before. Jim used to laugh delightedly when he got like this and then direct his anger towards a worthy target. Now, Q didn't want him to laughQ wanted him to _bleed._

Q pulled the gun away from Jim's chest and quicklybefore Jim had time to reactslammed the barrel of the gun against the criminal's forehead, causing him to jerk back and grunt in pain. Q followed, running on fury, and punched Jim in the gut, then kicked him in the same place when Jim doubled over. Jim was sent sprawled onto the floor. Q moved forward to straddle his hips, ready to throw punch after punch until his fury felt satisfied, but then-

"Seb," Jim croaked out, his tone pure laughter.

Immediately, Q knew what Jim was doing, and whirled around to face the threat he hadn't known was present. Before he could raise his gun or pull his knife, Sebastian Moran gripped him tightly, back to chest, pinning his arms against his sides. Sebastian's trade was sniper, but he was _very_ strong, and his arms felt like iron bars around Q's midsection.

Q growled in frustration, straining against the hold. "'Bastian!" he shouted. He jerked his leg backwards, aiming for the colonel's groin, but Sebastian was prepared for such an attack and quickly kicked Q's legs out from under him, forcing the hacker to knees and following him down in a more controlled position to keep him locked in place.

Q let out a yell of frustration, hating how he was being restrained while he still felt the overwhelming urge to hurt Jim. "Let me go, Sebastian Moran," Q growled.

The quartermaster felt more than heard Sebastian laugh. "It's good to see you, Q."

For a moment, ice water froze Q's veins. He was _blown,_ they _knew who he was,_ he had to signal Bond before they _killed him_ , he needed tothen he remembered. It had been a running joke; Q had always been their resident master hacker and creator of weapons and other gadgets, and Sebastian had taken to teasingly calling him _Quartermaster_ or _Q,_ their dark equivalent to one of MI6's heads.

Every time, Q had felt affection, warmth, amusement, even while feigning annoyance. He'd loved the camaraderie he'd had with Sebastian, the only person he and Jim trusted to always have their backs. He was their guard, their knight, as Jim had always joked. Sebastian was loyal to them and only them, and would take down any enemy they set him on.

Somehow, though, Q had one day become the enemy. And he still didn't know _why._

"Whoo!" Jim laughed, pulling himself to his feet. He touched his head and wrinkled his nose when he saw his fingers come away with a small amount of blood. "Well _that_ wasn't very nice."

Q scowled at him, but his anger had faded. "Either finish the job you started nine years ago or leave me the fuck alone," Q sighed tiredly. He knew, logically, that he needed Jim to bring him back into the fold for the mission. But the rest of himthe part that didn't believe M was rightjust wanted Jim to choose one of the two choices he'd just offered and be done with it.

Jim squatted down in front of him, tilting his head. Then, after a few moments of silent examination, said, "I missed you, Alec."

Q laughed, but it came out much more broken than he'd thought it would.

The criminal shook his head, the corners of his lips twitching up. "I mean it!" he exclaimed. "Losing you was like losing a limb."

"Like cutting off a limb," Q muttered back. Betrayal sparked in his chest, bitter and angry and _deep,_ long shoved away into the back of his mind.

Jim reached out, his intention to cup Q's cheek, but Q jerked back, eyeing him. "Don't," he warned. But his voice was a lot less dangerous than it had been earlier, and much more pleading than he wanted it to be. Jim cupped his cheek anyway. Q's eyes shuttered closed, his breath stuttering in his chest. "Don't," he whispered.

"My sweet Alexander," Jim murmured. His thumb stroked Q's skin, warm and familiar. Q shivered. "It's been so long. So much has happened. Why did you never come to me?"

Q opened his eyes and looked at the man with sad incredulity. "Why did I never _go to you?_ Jim-" his voice broke; Q hadn't actually said his name since M promised to seal his past nine years ago. "Jim, you tried to kill me." The criminal sighed in annoyance, leaning back. "No, you can't deny that!" Q shot at him. "Do you _remember_ what happened? Or did you dismiss that horrible night from your memory?"

Jim didn't look at him, eyes narrowed off to the side. Q pushed on. "We were driving back to our London apartment. 9:52pm. We'd just finished a job, a theft and assassination that had gone off without a hitch. There was some god-awful pop song on the radio, and you were singing at the top of your lungs, only getting louder the more I told you to stop. We were both grinning, we were both _happy._ I was looking at you and you were looking at me, and it was like every other perfect moment we'd shared in the past.

"But then suddenly you blinked at me, as if you were surprised, and your joy just drained away. I was concerned, I asked you what was wrong, but you just got really quiet and shook your head. We drove for about ten more seconds before you stopped the car and got out. I was confused, and I followed you. You were standing at the back of the car, staring off down the road. It was absolutely empty, just a small road through the middle of a field that no one visited.

"I called your name, and when you looked at me you looked so sad, but determined somehow. You kissed me, like it was important, and then you picked up a big rock from the side of the road and slammed it against my temple. I collapsed. You did it again. Then you were gone.

"I don't remember a lot after that point, just a lot of pain, and the distant feeling of my body convulsing, and the knowledge that yes, my skull is bashed in. It was dark, and so cold, and...that's it. When I woke up in the hospital, the doctors told me how lucky I was to be alive. If a couple on their honeymoon hadn't decided to take the scenic route, no one would've found me until at least 6am, and I would’ve been long dead by then.

"As it was, I was very lucky to have survived the blunt force trauma. I was in physical therapy for three months afterwards, regaining mobility in my arms and legs. For a short while, the doctor thought that I'd never be able to fully walk again or grip a pencil, let _alone_ actually use a computer," Q laughed bitterly. _"I_ lived that, Jim; _I_ did. And every single night I woke up in a cold sweat, terrified that the man I loved was going to show up and finish what he started.

"And the kicker? I never knew _why._ You, the king of monologuing before murdering, the king of listing out every single wrong-doing in poetic language, didn't say a word." He laughed again, breathless. Tears sprang to his eyes. "The only time I'd _ever_  seen you kill someone without speaking was when it was a spur of the moment decision, when you simply had an _itch._ So Ibeing the logical person that I amreached the conclusion that you _hadn't_ made the thought-out decision that I was too big of a threat or useless or any other reason we would've had when terminating a high-up employee. You just looked at me and thought... _Ya know, I think he'd look good dead."_

"Enough," Jim snapped, his eyes darting back over to meet Q's. "Enough," he repeated, more quietly.

Q's breathing came out harshly, and he immediately began working on regaining control over himself, hating himself for his loss of composure, for giving away his vulnerabilities.

Suddenly, Jim pressed forward and cupped Q's cheeks, grasping his face tightly. Q tried to jerk away but the criminal's hold was firm, and when Jim crashed their lips together Q had nowhere to go.

At first, Q was resistant. But the smooth lips against his were incredibly familiar, demanding and pleading as if desperate for him, and Q couldn't help but respond, kissing him back with a whimper.

Jim melted against him, pressing closer, and Q gasped for air between kisses, not wanting to pull away for a single moment but needing the breath.

"That wasn't why," Jim said breathlessly against Q's lips, kissing him again and again. "That wasn't why I hurt you. You weren't useless or a liability and you were _my_ big threat, not one against me."

"Then why?" Q begged, pressing their foreheads together and breathing heavily. "Why did you do that to me?"

Jim stroked Q's cheeks, and they sat in silence. "Let go of him, Seb," the criminal said eventually. "Alec will play nice." Sebastian immediately listened to the instruction, and just as Jim said, Q just slumped, staying where he was as the criminal continued to stroke his cheeks. Q shivered.

"Why?" the hacker asked again.

The criminal was silent, and Q accepted that he wasn't going to get an answer, but then

"You're right," Jim said, "we _were_ both happy. It was one of the most perfect moments; just you and me in the middle of nowhere. I looked at you, and I felt so much love, something I _never_ thought I would feel in my life, something I never _wanted_ in my life. And I knew in that moment that I would do absolutely anything for you. I would burn the world and everyone with it, I would kill and maim and torture people I needed, I would sacrifice everything I'd built _we'd_ builtfor you without hesitation.

"And I couldn't let that happen," Jim said, shaking his head. "The organization was powerful and world-wide. It was my baby, my masterpiece, everything I'd ever worked for. I was terrified that I would lose it all. So in that moment, I acted. I hit you, and I left you there. And I sobbed and screamed the entire ride to London, and then when I pulled to a stop I collected myself and didn't look back."

Somewhere, deep inside of Q, something released. A pressure he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying all these years was suddenly gone, rushing out of him like a flood. The not-knowing had been horrible, terrifying, and now he knew that it had nothing to do with Jim just wanting him gone. It happened because Jim loved him too much. Which was not a comforting reason in the slightest, but it flooded him with relief all the same.

Q let out a sob, curling downward as the strength that had been keeping him up left in a rush. He shook violently, tremors running through his entire body, and he felt Jim wrap his arms around him, holding him firmly against his chest and running a hand calmingly through his hair.

"I'm so sorry," Jim whispered. "Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry. I've spent nine years missing you, regretting what I did, and now that I have you back I never want to let you go. Come back to me, Alec. Come back to me and never leave."

"How do I know you won't just do it again?" Q asked, raising his head from where it was resting over Jim's heart to look the other man in the eye. The new position put their mouths very close together. "What would stop you from reaching that conclusion once more and trying to kill me again?"

Jim shook his head vehemently. "If these past nine years have taught me anything, it's that heading my empire is _nothing_ without you by my side," he said. "So come back, rule by my side again, Alexander. Come back to me, my love."

And right thenthis was why Q had warned M. This was why Q hadn't believed himself capable of this mission. Because staring into Jim's eyes, hearing the man he'd loved so intensely talk about needing him and wanting him, it made Q want to say _yes._ Not because he needed to for MI6's mission, but because he just _wanted_ to. Just wanted to be with Jim again.

Q took a shuddering breath. Then he surged upward, kissing Jim with all the desperation he felt in that moment. "Yes," he whispered against the criminal's lips. "Yes, yes, yes."

* * *

Staring up at the ceiling, Q counted the cracks in the plaster for the millionth time. Next to him, Jim let out a little snuffle, and Q relaxed his body and closed his eyes to feign sleep as Jim pulled himself into consciousness. Jim had an incredible ability to notice details, but Q had mastered pretending to be asleep a long time ago. He remained as he was as he felt Jim press his lips to his forehead in a light kiss and then get out of bed, dressing quickly before leaving.

When Q heard Jim leave, the apartment door closing behind him, Q opened his eyes, counting the cracks once more.

It had been three weeks since the first confrontation with Jim, and Q had slid right back into the position that he'd held nine years ago. It was almost alarming, how easy it was for him to be what he'd been before. Planning crimes, hacking for information, killing a traitor with his handgun and no hesitation. His quick mind was sharpened by Jim's, and his old instincts were back in the forefront of his mind.

That was the only thing Q was worried about. His anger, his jump to violenceJim was pulling them out of the back of his mind and making them a couple of his defining traits once more. The darkness Jim was forcing back into his mind concerned Q; it was seeping into his base code again, and when it came time for him to return to MI6, Q didn't know how much of the self he'd built for himself would be left.

With a slow breath, Q sat up and got out of bed, wincing as the movement pulled on his injuries. Jim's sexual proclivities hadn't changed at all; just as violent, just as brutal, just as kinky. But when Q wasn't tied down or drugged, the hacker gave as good as he got, and took pleasure in the cries of pain he pulled from Jim in return.

Q stepped into the shower, sighing happily as the warm water cascaded over his abused body. The night before Jim had been particularly fond of his cane, the thick one that always hurt the most, and bruising stripes were obvious across his back, thighs, and stomach. When he looked in the bathroom mirror, Q saw that there was a large hickie on the base of his neck, right above his collarbone. He rolled his eyes.

Back in the bedroom, Q pulled a nice suit on and ran a brush through his hair, then went into the kitchen to heat up some leftover take-out to eat. Pinned to the fridge was a note, telling Q that Jim had gone to their warehouse to make sure their gun shipment had arrived and was exactly what they'd ordered. There was an invite for Q to join him after the coder finished the planning of a robbery they'd been hired to help make happen.

After he finished his pork dumplings, Q pulled on his coat, put his laptop in his messenger bag along with a gun and knife, and then headed out of the apartment. A few blocks away there was a small coffee shop that Q liked to work in. It was a calm environment and had great tea, as well a pretty magnificent view of the Thames.

When he arrived, Q settled at his usual table in the back and got to work putting together the details for the heist; he'd mostly finished it the day before, but with a fresh day's view he made some tweaks to make it run more smoothly. When he was finally satisfied he looked at his phone's clock and saw that he'd been working for about three hours. He also saw that there was a message from Jim from about half an hour ago.

_Got a little surprise for you, honey. Come to the warehouse._

Q just blinked down at the screen, his eyebrows furrowing as he tried to figure out what Jim meant. It could be a special kind of gun, but Q had been there when they sent out the order for what they wanted, and it wasn't anything that would be a surprise or special to him.

His curiosity winning out, Q quickly packed up his things and tossed some money down on the table before quickly rushing out. Not having the patience for walking or the Tube, Q caught a taxi and gave it an address a few streets away from his and Jim's secret warehouse. When they arrived, Q calmly exited the cab, paying the driver and strolling towards his destination, even though he wanted to run.

At the door he punched in the passcode and pressed his hand against the palm scanner when it slid out of the wall. Accepting him, the door _beeped_ and the let him pull it open. Q headed through the base floor with all the random machinery and up the stairs to the floor where they kept most of their merchandise. He knocked on the door as warning and then entered.

There were some of their men moving about, some cleaning guns, some checking off things on lists, some just standing guard. Q walked down a few rows, headed towards the open area in the center of the floor, and quickly spotted Sebastian leaning against a metal table cluttered with plans and schematics, twirling a knife in his hand. When the sniper saw him he smirked slightly, raising his eyebrows and jerking his head towards the center of the room, presumably where Jim was.

When Q walked close enough, he saw Jim standing with his hands in the pockets of his Armani suit pants. He was facing someone on their knees that Q couldn't see because the criminal was blocking them, but when Jim heard Q approaching he turned, a wicked grin on his lips.

"Someone's been spying on you~" Jim said musically. "I caught a tail." Then he moved, and Q saw who was kneeling on the floor.

James Bond, 007, MI6's best agent, sat on the ground with his hands bound behind his back. There was a bruise blossoming on his cheek and a small gash on his forehead. Nausea churned in Q's gut, uneasy and anxious. Bond simply blinked.

Q knew how this was going to play out; Jim had caught a spy and would expect Q to kill him, since Q was the one he'd been following. But the very idea of putting a bullet in James' brain felt like a physical pain.

Making a split-second decision, Q rose his eyebrows and put an amused smile on his lips. He looked at Jim. "Congratulations, Jim," he chuckled, "you caught my pet Double-Oh agent."

It was hard to surprise Jim, even harder to surprise him enough that the man couldn't help but _look_ surprised, and Q took pleasure in the expression. "Excuse me?" the criminal demanded, sounding flabbergasted.

Q laughed and walked forward, the picture of nonchalance. "Jim, meet James Bond. Bond, meet Jim," Q made the light introductions, looking between the two before turning his attention back to Jim. "I met Double-Oh-Seven about four years ago; he was going after someone I had been hired to protect, and I won, killing the junior MI6 agent that had come with Bond to complete the assassination. What was her name, again, darling?" Q asked, glancing at Bond.

"Allison Marks," the agent replied immediately, his eyes locked on Q's face. Q wondered what the agent saw, wondered how much colder, how much _darker_ he seemed now.

"Yes, of course," Q agreed easily, as if her name didn't matter to him in the slightest. "Well, I killed her, and Bond managed to capture me. He tried to torture me into revealing the location of his target, which was unsuccessful, and then when I broke free of the restraints I let him fuck me into the mattress." He smirked. "We called it even, and James has been mine ever since."

Jim just blinked, still getting over his surprise. Q decided to continue. "Gives me a lot of good intel, lets me know when MI6 is beginning to track me down, helps me throw them off. I haven't contacted him in a while so his was probably following me to see if I was alright."

Q then turned to look at Bond, narrowing his eyes. "How the hell did you get captured anyway?" he asked incredulously. "You're _James Bond,_ MI6's best."

Behind them all, Sebastian cleared his throat. Q glanced over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows, and saw the sniper's smug smirk. "That would be me, Q," Sebastian replied. Out of the corner of his eye, Q saw Bond very carefully contain his body's instinct to tense as he heard the initial, confused and worried just as Q had been before he'd remembered the old nickname.

Q rolled his eyes and said, to subtly reassure Bond, "Honestly, 'Bastian, the  _Dark Q_ joke is very old."

The sniper's smirk didn't fall. "I don't know, I think it's funny."

"Just a moment," Jim interjected, putting himself back in the conversation. There was a look in his eyes, possessive and dark, and suddenly Q was very worried about Bond's safety. Jim was an easily jealous man, and in their time together in the past Q had witnessed the criminal execute three people for simply making a passing comment about Q's attractiveness or staring at his ass.

Trying to lessen the growing anger, Q turned his full attention to Jim, angling his body towards the other man and keeping their eyes locked. "Jim," he said simply.

Jim rose an eyebrow, his lips curling upward as if in a smile, but the dark emotions in his eyes stopped the expression from being anything resembling happy. "How many times, dearest?"

Q sighed, knowing what Jim was asking. "Is this really necessary?" Jim's stare didn't waver. Q pursed his lips. "I don't know, Jim, I didn't keep track. He'd do a mission for me and we'd fuck; I don't know how many jobs."

Immediately, Q knew he'd given Jim an opening, and the criminal jumped at it, his twisted smile growing. "Oh, honey, now you're just  _lying._ You have never forgotten a single mission in your _life._ I could say a date from twelve years ago and you'd be able to tell me exactly what job we were in the middle of and who was involved. You definitely know how many missions Mr. Spy performed for you."

Pursing his lips, Q tried to think of a way to get around the questionknowing that the answer wouldn't help mattersbut also knowing that he didn't have a choice. Jim got violent when he was denied what he wanted, and Q wasn't looking forward to being hit in front of Bond; it would make it look like he wasn't in control of the situation.

So, the coder sucked it up. "32 missions over the course of four years, and eight off-duty meet-ups."

Jim was silent, his expression not changing in the slightest, and then in a split-second he was moving, striding over to Sebastian and smoothly removing the handgun tucked in the sniper's thigh-holster before coming right back over. Q's breath caught in his throat, his mind running through a million possibilities, and he remained calm through absolute force of will.

Jim pointed the gun at Bond's head. The Double-Oh agent was extremely tense. Jim glared at him, fire in his eyes, and then turned that look on Q. Nausea churned in the coder's gut.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't shoot him right now. I've killed people for simply _looking_ at you, Alec; why shouldn't I kill the man who's actually _touched_ you?"

Q was in a very difficult spot; any reason he gave Jim would just look like he was doing anything he could to save his ex-lover, which would make Jim want to kill Bond even more than he already did. There was no winning; no matter what Q did, Jim would kill Bond with pleasure. Unless...

Q turned to look at Bond and rose his eyebrows, putting a vaguely amused smile on his lips. "Bond?" he prompted.

Clearly having reached the same conclusion as Q, Bond's answer was immediate and the agent met Jim's eyes evenly. "Because I'm valuable. I have unlimited access to MI6, knowledge of every agent's skill level and position, and the records of all the operations currently in progress and to comeincluding, Mr. Moriarty, four against you and your assets."

Jim's jaw clenched and relaxed a few times, and then he tossed the gun off to the side in frustration. The metal object clattered against the ground and Sebastian immediately sighed and went to grab it, just as the criminal began walking purposefully over to Q, who tensed, expecting a hit.

Instead, Jim yanked Q towards him by the lapels of his jacket and crashed their lips violently together. Q whimpered and melted against him, wrapping his arms around Jim's midsection and pulling him closer. Jim licked into his mouth and bit at his lips, making Q gasp and shiver in his hold and return the force of the kiss. Jim growled against his lips, "You're _mine,_ Alexander."

Q met his gaze and said, "Always," as if it were the most obvious fact in the universe. Jim grinned.

Suddenly, still pressed tightly against Jim, Q became acutely aware of Bond watching them, witnessing the passion they shared, and it made Q feel sick. He wasn't supposed to really be feeling these things, wasn't supposed to actually mean that Jim had a hold over him like no one else ever would, not even Bond, whom he cared for immensely and maybe even loved. No one would ever come close to the connection he shared with Jim.

Jim pulled back and sighed in an exasperated fashion, but it was a fond sound. "Fine, the agent can live. But I get to have Seb work him over."

Q most definitely did not let his uneasiness show, and just rolled his eyes, equally fond. "You're so lazyyou aren't even going to get out your petty, jealous, possessiveness yourself; you're going to have 'Bastian do it."

"I'm a busy man!" Jim exclaimed, as if he were actually offended. "Seb will do a good job, anyway; he likes punching people." Q saw the sniper roll his eyes behind Jim. Jim looked back over his shoulder and glared at Sebastian. "I felt that, Sebby. Your eye rolls are just as powerful as Alec's."

Sebastian just smirked. "Sorry, Boss," he said, not sounding at all apologetic.

Jim looked back at Q. "One day I'm going to get around to putting a bullet in him for his constant impertinence."

"No you won't," both Q and Sebastian said at the exact same time. Jim put an aghast expression on his face. Q laughed.

"Seb, just take the spy away, give him Level Five and then one of those rooms to rest in. I'll test his usefulness tomorrow," Jim instructed in a bored tone, looking at Q with a bright glint in his eyes. "I have better things to do right now."

Q saw the sniper walk over to Bond's kneeling form and pull him to his feet. Jim wasn't looking at them, focused solely on Q, but Q saw Bond's eyes linger on them, eyes flashing with brief emotion. But, being the good agent he was, Bond quickly turned his head away and faced forward, letting Seb pull him away. What Jim had nicknamed "Level Five" torture was basically just a really good beating, not even worthy of the term "torture". Q wasn't concerned; Bond would be perfectly fine, if a little banged up.

Just like the agent had, Q forced himself to not watch the man walk away, turning his attention back to Jim. The criminal's smile was wide and happy and lustful, and Q let himself be laid back over the table and fucked until he couldn't remember that Bond was in the other room being beaten up simply because an insane man was in love with him. Until he couldn't remember that there was anything wrong with loving Jim in return.

* * *

It was a week before Q saw Bond again.

The heist Q had put together went off without a hitch, and Jim began sponsoring another serial killer, and Sebastian pulled off an impossible and incredible kill, and a shipment of drugs got stolen which led to them killing four traitors who had thought they were smart enough to get away with it. Overall, it was a very eventful week, and Q barely had any time to even _think_ about Bond, let alone see him.

But eight days after the initial confrontation in the warehouse, Q made his way back to the building, intent on seeing the man. It was late, and Jim hadn't moved from his spot staring at his laptop doing work all day, so Q felt confident that he'd be able to visit Bond without it starting a problem with Jim.

The third floor of the warehouse had been converted into a livable space as a precaution. There were five rooms, a kitchen area, and a few comfortable couches. One of the rooms was just as nice as the rest, but behind the door were bars that locked just like a jail cell. It was in case they had someone they didn't want going anywhere but wasn't completely an enemy or prisoner. James Bond fit that category.

Q walked down the hall to the cell room at the end and opened the door, then knocked his knuckles against the thick, metal bars still in place.

On the twin bed, Bond sat up, lowering his feet to the floor and facing Q. The agent was still in his tan suit pants, but he'd removed his matching suit jacket and white button-down shirt, leaving his chest bare. Blooms of dark reds and purples stained his stomach, ringed with a sick green color, and there were a couple bruises over his chin and cheek.

"Hello, Bond," Q murmured. "Are you alright?"

The agent tilted his head to the side, his eyes flicking all over Q, lingering on his neck and cheek and wrists, which were visible at the edges of his sleeves. Q's lips thinned, knowing what Bond was stuck on; the brand-new large hickie over his carotid, along with the bright red bruise in the clear imprint of a hand wrapped around his throat; the inch-long cut on his cheek dangerously close to his eye; and the dark bruises circling his wrists, obviously created by being tied up tightly.

"Better than you, I'd imagine," Bond responded eventually. "What would I see if you were shirtless as well?"

Q looked away, pursing his lips. "I can handle pain just as well as you, Bond."

"I have no doubt," the agent said honestly, but his eyes were narrowed. "The difference is that _my_ injuries weren't caused by a lover during sex, and yours were."

"Oh, shut up," Q snapped, turning his gaze back to Bond, glaring. "Are you forgetting I'm here for a reason? You thought...what? That I'd come back to Jim and he'd be perfectly content leaving me be physically? He's a _sexual sadist,_ Bond; the first time we ever had sex was him drugging and raping me."

Bond was instantly on his feet, tense as a live wire, his eyes filled with rage. Part of Q regretted saying that, because it was pretty much guaranteed to incite Bond's fury and bloodlust, but the rest of him felt a little satisfied to make Bond actually understand that he hadn't made the decision to return to Jim lightly on any level.

"I just wanted to make sure 'Bastian hadn't hurt you too badly," Q said calmly, withdrawing emotionally. He crossed his arms over his chest. "You look fine, so I'll be going now."

He'd only gotten a few steps before Bond spoke. "Your voice changes when you say Moriarty's name." Q stopped. "Overall there seems to be no difference, but you sound softer when referencing him. And you call Moran _Bastian,_ even when no one else is around." Q turned back to face the cell room, his expression unreadable. Bond's was the same.

The agent continued. "I'd never seen you like that before. There was something inherently darker in your eyes, like the softness and kindness had simply been sucked right out of you. And you matched Moriarty's careless attitude about life effortlessly, bantered with him and the sniper easily. It's like you're...comfortable in this lifestyle."

Q blinked, going back over everything Bond had just said to make sure he'd heard right, and then looked at the agent incredulously. "Are you" he let out a bark of laughter. "My _god,_ Bond! You're a _spy!_ Do you honestly not understand how playing a role works? You've only done it about a million times; I would  _hope_ you had the concept mastered by now."

Bond simply looked at him, and there was something in his eyes that resembled pity, and it sent a spark of anger through Q's body. "Yes, Q, I do. And that's why I know how to spot when someone's fooling themselves. When I'm out of here, I'm going to tell M to pull you. You were right when you doubted your ability to complete this mission; you're far too close to it."

For a moment, Q's voice abandoned him. Whatever he'd been expecting Bond to say, that wasn't it, not even close. He refused to examine whether or not Bond had a point, simply saying, "We both know M won't pull me, Bond; he sent me to do this job precisely _because_ of how close I am, and he won't pull me for the reason he thought I was perfect for it in the first place. He'll wait, and he'll get a gold star when the organization gets taken down."

"And what about you?" Bond murmured. "Being here is _breaking_ you, Q, and you'll break even more if you decide to turn against Moriarty."

Q focused on keeping his breathing even. "If?" he asked quietly. _"If?"_

Bond looked instantly regretful, apologetic, but didn't take his words back. Q pursed his lips and slammed the door shut, blocking Bond from view, and then strode off down the hallway, leaving his own doubts and fears behind with the agent.

* * *

Jim was waiting for him when he got back to the apartment, reclining on the couch and playing some chirping video game on his phone. The man looked up when he entered and smiled. There was something in his eyes, some emotion that Q couldn't quite identify but worried him all the same.

"Come on!" the criminal said joyfully, popping to his feet. "We've got a little trip to make; follow me."

Q frowned as Jim strode confidently out the door, and for lack of anything else to do plus an amount of curiosity, he followed, locking the door behind them.

When they were out on the street, Jim held the backseat door to their towncar open for him, and, with a bemused expression, Q climbed in, scooting over as Jim followed. Sebastian was in the driver's seat, had been reading a book which he now put down and started the car, pulling out into traffic. He glanced at Q in the rearview mirror and then away without a word.

"What exactly are we doing, Jim?" Q asked, glancing over at his partner.

Jim looked back at him and reached out, stroking his hand softly over the coder's cheek. Q sighed contentedly, his eyes sliding shut as he leaned into the touch.

"Oh, my dear," Jim murmured. "You love me, don't you?"

Q opened his eyes, confused by the odd question. "Yes," he replied, his eyebrows furrowing. "More than anything." The honesty of the statement left him breathless for a moment, and Jim's gaze softened from the odd emotion they'd had this whole time, tinging with sadness.

"What's going on, Jim?" Q asked, starting to feel anxious.

Jim didn't respond, leaning forward to kiss him. It was soft, loving, different from the passion or excitement or joy that they usually shared, whether in long kisses or quick pecks.

"Not to worry, my dear," Jim said with a grin, the expression the polar opposite of his subdued mood from before. "Just a little surprise." Then he pecked Q quickly on the lips and settled comfortably back into the leather of the seats.

Ten minutes later, the car pulled up in front of a building Q recognized as where a lot of their middle-level full-time employees did their work in many different fields, separated by overarching subjects into floors. The basement level was mainly where any _interrogations_ took place, holding a seemingly infinite amount of tools, ten cells with drains in the floor and chains from the ceiling, and sound-proof walls.

Jim led Q and Sebastian into the elevator, punching in a special code so that the elevator would take them to the restricted floor. When they reached it, Jim sauntered confidently out, ever the king. The few agents down there straightened immediately, staring resolutely ahead as their boss passed.

Q followed Jim to the last cell of the floor. He was anxious, concerned about who Jim was about to show he'd captured and tortured, but when Jim punched in the code and pulled the door open, Q saw that there was no one inside. The chains from the ceiling were lowered as if waiting for someone to be bound in them and a table of tools was in the corner, but the room lacked any signs of someone having been there recently.

With a confused frown, Q turned to look at Jim, searching for answers, but the other man simply stared blankly back at him before striding into the room. Q stayed where he was, still trying to make sense of what was going on, and then from behind him Sebastian nudged his shoulder, pushing him forward. Q let himself be moved, following Jim into the chamber.

Jim was facing the back wall, his hands in his suit pockets, head tilted slightly towards the ceiling. Q let the silence continue, until Jim said, in a quiet voice, "Seb."

Sebastian stepped forward, closing the cell door behind them, and then grabbed a light hold of Q's shoulder. Q looked back at him, raising an eyebrow, and felt anxiety begin to tighten his chest, getting worse when the sniper pulled his jacket from his shoulders.

Q jerked out of the hold, quickly backing away from Sebastian and keeping both of the other men in his sights. Sebastian calmly hung his jacket on a hook by the door and Jim still didn't turn around.

"What the hell is going on?" Q demanded. Jim still didn't say anything, and Sebastian began to approach the coder, expression determined.

When the sniper was close enough, Q fought back. Sebastian was bigger and stronger, but Q was faster, and a very skilled fighter. He managed to get in a few good hitsenough to have Sebastian favoring his right leg and with a completely useless left hand, broken at the wrist, plus a good amount of bruisesbut Sebastian still managed to overpower him, forcefully pulling his button-down shirt off and then heaving his body towards the center of the room.

Q screamed and thrashed, trying to cause any injury he could to get out of Sebastian's hold, but the most he managed to do was scratch angry welts across the sniper's cheek before he trapped Q's wrists in the hanging chains, locking them shut.

When Sebastian let go of him, Q launched himself forward, using the slack chains as leverage to get in a good kick to the bigger man's back. Sebastian stumbled forward a step but quickly regained his footing and reached the lever on the wall that controlled the chains; he pushed it up and slowly Q's slack began to disappear, sucked up into the ceiling. Sebastian didn't stop until Q was balancing on the balls of his feet.

Q's shoulders protested the new position and he winced, trying to find a solid position on his feet. Sebastian leaned against the door and crossed his arms. He looked briefly apologetic, but the expression didn't last long, fading into dispassionate observance.

"Jim, what the hell?" Q begged, trying to look over his shoulder at his partner. "What are you doing? _Why are you doing this?"_

The criminal remained silent, leaving Q in panicked agony, before turning and walking around him so that they were face to face. His expression was unreadable, and his eyes were cold. The two stared at each other, Q desperately searching, Jim not showing a thing.

After a few moments, Jim reached into his inner suit jacket pocket and pulled out his phone, glancing down at it as he pulled something up. He then turned the phone to face Q and pushed the _Play_ button in the middle of the screen. The video began, and Q recognized himself, facing Bond's cell. Both he and Bond were talking, but Q couldn't hear a single word through the sudden rushing in his ears. He didn't need to, anyway; he had that meeting memorized.

"Jim," Q whispered, raising his eyes to meet the criminal's dark gaze.

"We built that compound Post-You, so I'm not surprised that you didn't know that there were cameras on the third floor. I _am_ surprised you didn't even think to check. Then again, you were quite _distracted,_ weren't you?" His lips curled, a parody of a smile, lacking anything warm or kind. "The camera has a motion sensor and alerted me when someone approached the cell room; I watched and listened to the whole interaction."

Jim slid his phone back into his pocket. Q hated seeing him looking at him like that, cold and unfeeling, unloving. It hurt more than Q ever thought it could.

"Jim," he whispered again, not knowing what to say.

The criminal shook his head. _"M,_ as in the leader of MI6, yes? And the Double-Oh called you _Q._ Actually _Q,_ not teasing. My, darling, you really did a 180 in career choices didn't you?"

"The previous M found me right after I finished my physical therapy," Q murmured, feeling the need to explain. "She offered me a position in Q-Branch, and four years ago I became the Quartermaster."

"The agent was following you to try to _protect_ you, wasn't he?" Jim asked.

Q, on instinct, tried to shrug, but it simply sent him off-balance and it took him a moment to regain his footing. "He wasn't supposed to."

Jim's lips twisted sardonically. His eyes never changed from that cold deadness. _"Ah,_ so there's more than just a _working_ relationship between the two of you."

"Jim, please-" Q began, not even sure what he was pleading _for,_ but Jim stopped him.

"No!" he screamed in the coder's face. "No, no." The man took a deep breath, then another, and another. "I must admit, this entire plan was _genius,_ Alec. You really pushed all the right buttons. You played me like a fiddle. So clever, awfully clever, bravo."

"Everything I said to you was true," Q confessed honestly. "Everything, Jim, I-"

"Quiet," Jim commanded dangerously. "The only time I want to hear you speak is when I ask you a question, understood?" Pulling in a shuddering, pained breath, Q nodded. "Good. Now, what were your exact orders for this whole thing?"

Q squeezed his eyes shut. This hurt, more than he'd ever thought possible, and he knew that he would offer anything in that moment to make Jim feel better, less betrayed. He would do anything to have Jim smile at him, that look of excited adoration when Q did something spectacular, the lust, the passion, the softness and love. But he couldn't lie.

"I was to spend a few week living in my cover of the master freelance hacker and such, then do a job for someone loosely connected to your organization as if it were a complete accident. Eventually you'd track down the person who did the job and find me. M was completely confident you'd want me back. I was not. If you  _did_ pull me back into working for you, then I would play the role and compile evidence against you and your assets and then deliver it to MI6, which they then would use to hunt everyone down."

Opening his eyes, Q saw Jim staring at him, cold and unreadable. "Why didn't you think I'd pull you back in?"

Q let out a broken laugh. "For the exact reason I told you when you first found me; the last time we were together you tried to  _kill_ me, Jim. I half-thought you'd see me, gloat and goad for a minute, and then put a bullet in my brain to finish what you started nine years ago."

"What kind of relationship  _do_ you have with Mr. Spy?" Jim asked.

The hacker sighed and shook his head. "We aren't  _in_ a relationship; we've flirted and he's been kind and protective but nothing has ever happened or come of it. And no," he added, "before you ask, I didn't  _want_ anything more with Bond. You ruined me for anything even remotely normal."

"Why did you agree to do this in the first place? If you half-thought I'd kill you, why do it at all?"

Q pursed his lips, suddenly feeling incredibly sad. "Because I was the only one who stood a chance of accomplishing it. And..." he squeezed his eyes shut, preventing the tears that wanted to fall from escaping. "And it was  _you,_ Jim. You didn't deserve...some lacky who forced themselves up through the ranks. If you were going to be brought down, it was going to be by the best, by your equal."

Jim let out an incredulous bark of laughter. "So your reasoning for betraying me was that no one else should have? Well doesn't that make me feel all warm and fuzzy."

"If you listened to my whole conversation with Bond then you know he thought I was fooling myself, thinking I could turn against you. That I'm comfortable here, comfortable with  _you._ If you acknowledged learning why I was here then you have to acknowledge why I've stayed, why the file of evidence I've been putting together is a  _quarter_ the size it should be, given my access." He looked at Jim, and realized in that moment what his fate would be. It wasn't good. "Everything I said to you was true," he whispered. "If you remember  _anything_ after I'm gone, let it be that."

Jim shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. "Goodbye, Alexander." Then he turned and walked away, knocking twice on the cell door, which then swung open. "Sebastian?" he said, his tone a command. The sniper nodded, and Jim was gone. Q's heart shattered.

When the door closed again, Q forced himself to stop staring at it as if Jim would walk right back through the door if he hoped hard enough. The hacker turned his head to meet Sebastian's gaze.

"Sorry, Q," the sniper sighed, and to his credit actually sounded like he meant it. "But you betrayed usyou were going to send us all away to prison, or to a death sentence. And you know as well as I that that wouldn't go unpunished in a million years." The man walked slowly forward, his eyes dark and determined and  _sad,_ and picked up a knife from the table of tools.

Once Q started screaming, he didn't stop for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Much like my previous work "To Know Him", this fic was originally starting to get a lot longer, but since I really wanted to post this (I've been writing this for a really fucking long time) I've decided to break it up. So! Part 1 is here.
> 
> What to expect in Part 2: Another Alexander-and-Jim flashback; a change of control; a Holmes brother (or two); a protective soldier (or three); a shift of allegiances; a very frustrated/pissed off/confused government official; and, as ever, a few delightful psychopaths being smarter than everyone else.


End file.
